Page 4 of Rulebreaker (Gamebreakers #4)

FOUR

Lily

“It’s a very exclusive club,” he says, lacing his fingers together and putting them behind his head. “Especially on my jet.”

“Oh?” I turn onto my side so I can look at him. A cuddle would’ve been nice, but my gut tells me that’s not his style. And if I’m honest, we’re better off not doing things that might make me want more. “What does it take for an invitation to the bedroom on Delarosa Air?”

“You tell me.” His eyes bore into mine.

“All I did was kiss you,” I say innocently. “The rest was all you.”

“You did a hell of a lot more than kiss me.” His smile is disarming. Sexy as fuck. And those eyes–that’s his secret weapon. He probably doesn’t even know it.

“Did I?” I ask playfully, rolling onto my back and stretching. I arch my torso so my back bows. My breasts rise as I extend my arms over my head and I can practically feel his eyes on me.

“You’re like an exotic cat,” he murmurs, reaching out a hand to trail his fingers along my stomach. “Exquisitely beautiful but extremely dangerous and impossible to tame.”

Why do those words make me feel special? It was just sex, but for some reason it felt like so much more. It’s like he’s turned me inside out and it’s disconcerting. And I don’t do disconcerting.

I like to be in control–outside the bedroom anyway–and Atlas is making me feel very out of control.

“Looks like you figured this little kitty out,” I tease, trying to still the pounding of my heart.

“Along with all the ways to make that tight little pussy of yours purr.”

“You kiss your mama with that dirty mouth?” I ask, forcing a playful grin.

He chuckles. “Most certainly not.”

“Do you even have a mama? I feel like you probably descended from dinosaurs–the corporate-a-saurus.”

“I have a mother,” he says dryly, “but I don’t know where she is. She gave me up when I was ten. I spent the next eight years in foster care.”

Oh hell’s bells.

Why did he have to tell me something so personal? Now he’s a real person, not just a friend of a friend who happens to have the world’s most perfect dick.

Dammit, Atlas.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I didn’t mean to bring up a painful memory.”

“It’s not painful. I have no feelings about her one way or the other. She was a single mom who couldn’t take care of me. She did the best she could, and honestly, it made me into the man I am. I probably wouldn’t be where I am if not for what she did. I don’t–”

A beep interrupts him and then Maya’s voice comes over an intercom. “Mr. Delarosa, the pilot has started his descent. We’re about thirty minutes from touching down.”

“I need to get dressed,” I say, sitting up.

“The bathroom is all yours,” he says, motioning toward the door.

The intimate moment we were sharing is lost, so I make my way into the beautiful room, staring down at the bidet with interest. That’s probably more useful than I originally thought.

But first, I take a moment to size up my reflection in the mirror.

I look absolutely, positively well-fucked. Hair a wild halo around my head, cheeks flushed, lipstick gone, makeup smeared. I’m a mess, but the best kind of mess, in my opinion.

Atlas Delarosa was everything I could have dreamed of in bed–and then some.

Which makes him very, very dangerous.

The safest thing for everyone involved is for me to walk away.

Before I do something…stupid.

I’m not looking for a relationship and there’s something about this guy that twists me up inside.

I do my best to freshen up, fix my face, tame my hair into a ponytail, and pull my clothes back on. I’ll shower when I get to the hotel. Then I’m going to sleep and focus on tomorrow night’s show.

I don’t have time for anything else.

Atlas is no longer in bed when I come out of the bathroom and I find him back in the chair he was in when we first took off–looking as put together as ever. He cleans up well.

I’ve just settled into my chair across from him when the wheels touch down.

Oh, good.

No awkward post-coital small talk.

I need to get out of here.

“We’re in a private hanger,” he says. “Your car service should be waiting.”

“Thank you.” I get to my feet and reach for my purse. “For everything. I really appreciate the ride.” God, that was a dumb thing to say, but it’s too late now.

So I lean over and press my lips to his cheek, letting them linger just a fraction of second longer than I should have.

“You’ve very welcome.” There’s a strange look on his face but I can’t allow myself to spend time thinking about it.

“Take care.”

He opens his mouth, like he’s going to say something, but before he can, I make a beeline for the exit, brushing past a startled Maya in my wake.

The show in Denver is sold out and I roll my neck as I prepare to take the stage.

Every performance is a two-hour workout and I do my best to give the audience what they paid for. Because tickets to see me live aren’t cheap.

I’m a little tired tonight, though.

Despite my plans to sleep last night, I tossed and turned once I got to the hotel. My body felt like it was on high alert, skin tingling, limbs restless. Almost as if I was branded. Like Atlas Delarosa fucking marked me.

What does that even mean ?

I can’t wrap my head around the pull–the physical need to touch him.

And it’s distracting as fuck.

“Thirty seconds, Lily.” My stage manager, Barb, motions to me.

“Thanks.”

I roll my neck again and close my eyes, pulling in a deep breath through my nose. I hold it, count to ten, and then very slowly blow it out through my mouth. I do that two more times and I’m as centered as I’m going to be. Some nights are harder than others.

Usually I revel in being on stage, performing. I get off on the energy I pull from the crowd.

It’s different tonight.

Maybe I’m different.

Stop it, Lily.

I’m an idiot when it comes to men.

Always have been.

That’s why I know better than to start anything with a guy like Atlas. Someone strong and smart and even more successful than me–successful men are my kryptonite. A weakness that makes me second guess myself every god damn time.

There’s a reason I’ve put a moratorium on dating.

Sex is easy, and historically, I’ve had a lot of it.

I decided to take a break on casual hookups and one-night stands because it was beginning to feel… forced . Looking to ease my loneliness with a physical connection that winds up leaving me even more lonely in the aftermath.

“Lily… 3 - 2- 1…” Barb always counts down for me so I know exactly where to be when she hits “one.” Except I’m so lost in thought I miss my cue and end up a couple of beats behind.

Dammit .

But instinct kicks in–I’ve done this thousands of times over the years.

“Hello, Denver–how the heck are you tonight?”

The audience erupts in applause and I take a moment to size them up. There’s a little girl in the front row with a sign— Today is my eighth birthday! —and she’s bouncing up and down waving it.

A few rows behind her there’s another sign— Will you go to prom with me?

That would be a hoot.

Maybe I’ll do it. It’s a great publicity stunt, and I never got to go to my own prom. I’ll have my security team bring the kid backstage after the show, talk to him, see if it’s feasible with my schedule.

My drummer counts off and we go right into “Heaven’s Heartbeat,” my first big hit.

It’s a country song but we’ve added some rock guitar and a little grind to the vocals that makes it a bit more mainstream.

I have to find balance at my shows because although my country songs got me started, it’s my pop albums that brought me super stardom.

I need to respect both sets of fans, and sometimes it’s a tricky line to walk.

“...it’s not just heaven, it’s everywhere we look, the heartbeat of forever, you read me like a book.” Everyone is singing along to the chorus, and I dance along the edge of the stage.

I have a big production these days, including backup singers who also dance, a full band, and videos that enhance the storyline of each song. It took months to plan and set up, but the crowds seem to love it, and I do my best to give them a night to remember.

“How about we sing happy birthday to someone?” I say. The crowd seems amenable, so I look down to the front row. “What’s your name, sweetheart? ”

She replies but I can’t hear her, so her father repeats it. “Gigi!”

“Okay, Gigi turned eight today. Everybody help me sing…”

Someone hands me an acoustic guitar, and I play some basic chords as eighteen thousand people sing “Happy Birthday” to Gigi.

The smile on her face is a mile wide and that’s one of many reasons I do what I do.

“Happy birthday, dear Gigi…happy birthday to you!” I extend that last syllable and then the room explodes in applause.

Happy birthday, sweet Gigi.

Finally .

I’m back in the zone and focused on music.

Time to put Atlas and the best sex of my life behind me.